Chapter 7 - The Woman in Vanessa’s Dress
Three months passed before first real romantic complication, and naturally it arrived wearing dead wife’s dress. Voss Foundation annual winter gala had been planned long before kidnapping. Harlan wanted cancel. Board insisted event funds children’s cardiac program Belle relied on. Eleanor supported continuing. I had become interim independent representative for Great Lakes ownership and somehow needed attend because foundation held leases with our company. “I don’t have gala dress.” Harlan said, “Someone can arrange.” “That sentence is why rich people frighten me.” Eleanor offered take me shopping. I bought dark green gown with my own new money and almost returned it six times because price could once have covered six months rent.
At gala, Harlan wore black tuxedo. When he saw me at top stairs, he stopped mid-conversation. Belle whispered loudly, “Daddy forgot words.” I pretended not to hear.
Then another woman entered.
Tall.
Blonde.
Wearing silver gown I recognized from framed photograph of Vanessa.
“Who is that?”
Harlan’s expression hardened.
“Lydia Shaw.”
Everett’s sister.
She had somehow obtained Vanessa’s dress from charity archive and wore it deliberately.
Cruelty can be elegant.
Lydia approached.
“Harlan.”
“You have thirty seconds to leave.”
She smiled.
“I came as invited donor.”
“You’re wearing my wife’s dress.”
“It was sold.”
“No.”
“I bought it through estate liquidation.”
Eleanor stepped forward, furious. “You stole it.”
Lydia looked at me.
“And this must be waitress.”
I smiled. “And you must be woman wearing dead person’s clothes for attention.”
Belle choked on juice.
Harlan almost laughed.
Lydia’s face tightened.
She accused Harlan publicly of framing Everett and stealing Callaway shares through manufactured evidence. Reporters noticed. Drama erupted.
Then she produced alleged letter from Camille claiming she sold Callaway interest years earlier.
If true, my ownership disappeared.
Harlan’s lawyers demanded document.
Lydia refused unless court.
Perfect scandal.
But my mother had taught me papers have habits.
The signature looked wrong.
Not handwriting.
Date.
Letter dated July 14, six years ago.
My mother was hospitalized that entire week and physically unable to sign.
I had medical records.
Forgery collapsed within days.
Lydia was later linked to Everett’s attempt to seize shares.
But gala mattered for another reason.
After security escorted Lydia out, I found Harlan alone in terrace.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Because dress?”
“Yes.”
I stood beside him.
“Vanessa was beautiful.”
He looked surprised.
“You’ve seen photos.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not jealous?”
“Of dead woman I never met?”
“People are strange.”
“True.”
He stared at skyline.
“I loved her.”
“I know.”
“I still do.”
“I know.”
He looked at me.
That was moment.
Not kiss.
Not confession.
Permission.
For love past and something future to coexist without replacing either.
We returned inside.
May you like
Belle grabbed our hands, one each.
For entire dance floor, she refused let go.
